Brotifold
by the tx -Victor Creedy
Summary: A story of two friends. One of Asgard, one of Earth.
1. Prologue: 1

Something is moving, quickly. Past endless stars and lingering gas clouds, an objects speeds. Near invisible to the naked eye. Even if you were equipped with some kind of lense, you might only catch for a split second, the head and tail of something resembling a comet. There is no sound, the object makes no aetherial whirr, no...anything. The object is surrounded by a thin sheet of yellow dazzle. This is what seems to carry it along, to push it through space

But on inspection, this object isn't a comet or meteoroid. It isn't another chunk of space rock floating dully back and forth. It's a hammer, a weapon. And is easily distinguishable as such, no one in their right mind would dare to try and construct anything with this deformed gavel. It has a long handle and a wide head, with two tapered edges. One in the shape of a pyramid, and the other a flat square face. At the end of the handle is a small loop, and where the handle meets the head is a leather band, wrapped around the handle itself. Made from a dull metal resembling iron, you might easily confuse it for stone. It's named Brotifold. It is a weapon of Asgard.

The hammer has travelled across the cosmos for a long time. Taking an eternity to pass even the highest branches of Yggdrasil, yet still travelling fast enough to be but a passing spec to every other inhabitant, of every other planet, of other every other star. But it has finally reached somewhere...somewhere familiar. In the blink of an eye, the hammer leaves interstellar space and zips through the icy innards this system's Oort cloud. The outermost bodies; passed. The asteroid belt; passed. Now in its trajectory is a planet. A blue world seemingly sparse of continents. It slams into the atmosphere, its yellow surface engulfed by a fiery orange. The hammer races toward the ground.

The landscape below is quiet. Insects sing and animals grunt among the forested and craggy terrain. Both the landscape and quiet are then shattered. A fireball erupts high above the ground. Trees crack and splinter, showering their surroundings with needles of wood and pine. Grasses and shrubs burn. The entire forest is flattened for miles on end,

In the crater stands Brotifold, intact. An eerie air is left by the impact. There are no sounds, except for the distance crack of fires and distressed birdsong. An ambient camouflage slips across the hammer's surfaces. It disappears into the daylight.

Stone cracks. Bone snaps. The story begins.


	2. Prologue: 2

**1956**

Charles Vinson was sitting on his bed. It wasn't actually his bed, it belonged to the infirmary. And was one of the few decent beds to be found on the _Ulysses._ Charles felt grateful for that, he had expected to have been given something a lot less, a metal cot maybe. But his sleeping arrangements weren't exactly at the epitome of worry. The room itself seemed out of touch with the rest of the _Ulysses._ Even if they didn't admit it, he knew that the infirmary staff had made up the room for him especially. This gesture hadn't worked the way intended, instead of feeling grateful at the sight of his quarters, Charles became insensibly vexed. Irritated even. Laudability was on everyone's mind when it came to him. Despite the circumstance, he didn't seem visibly shaken. The circumstance itself being war. Or a crisis, as it would come to known.

Charles stood up. His eye was hurting again. There was no mirror anywhere in the room, not even a small one. Despite its unnecessary grandeur, it lacked basic necessities, he would have to go to the nearest bathroom. He rolled his shoulders and stepped out the door. What greeted him was a corridor, unsurprisingly. It was what you might expect from the interior of most ships. Grey walls, ceiling and floor. Complete with exposed piping, and rows of smooth headed bolts, which were satisfying to the touch. By now Charles was halfway out the door, but he stopped. Sighing, he swiftly moved back to his bed. There on the sheets was the square patch that had been covering his eye. Putting it back on, he thought how that might have looked. Him wandering about the ship with that grievous wound showing. Catching the disdainful looks from, well, everyone.

Back in the hallway, Charles now looked a little more fitting. Over his shoulder, he heard voices, two crewmen. They were talking about stuff back home. Eden and something about drug bans. Eden, Eden, Eden. He had sent them out on an embargo that became nothing short of an international disaster and he was already having to face the music. The two carried on with their conversation and paid Charles no attention, thankfully. The Med seemed to be calm that day, there was no conspicuous bobbing to be felt. The thought of the two behind him lingered for a moment. The Seamen, or any crew on the _Ulysses_ for that matter, didn't seem to mind Charles and his contemporaries. Then again, almost everyone on this ship didn't seem to want to get acquainted, start any upset, or even spend any time in close proximity to their peers. Everyone had their eyes set on one thing: home. And fortunately, their home was no less than a week away, give or take.

Down the corridor, Charles saw another man walking his way. The man looked just a little older than Charles. He wasn't crew, Charles could tell. The insignia made him out to another subaltern, like himself. Both of them made eyes for a moment. But after Charles broke his gaze, he could feel the man's gape stay on him intently. This look seemed to bore in Charle's flesh, as if another bloody hole was being torn into him. In short: this didn't make him happy. Not to say that he was particularly happy in the first place. His fellow officer's footsteps gradually echoed away. Charles had reached the bathroom. A metal door, in keeping with the rest of the ship, was the entrance. The only difference being a 'WC' sign nailed about two thirds the way up. Inside Charles looked at himself in the mirror

Now he was able to relax somewhat, loosen his tie, fill up a water basin and reflect. Charles was a young man, considerably well built ('cut enough' as his father might say). Short dark brown hair and brown eyes were what best defined him, from outside his own peripheries. But now was the tricky part. Charles lifted his hands, his mirrored counterpart doing the same, up to the patch covering his left eye. It was a square medical patch, temporarily given to him by the infirmary. Made from a soft white material, similar to a bandage. With both hands, he took two of its edges and braced himself. His face tensed, he pulled. Charles reeled, throwing his head back a few inches, and letting out a groan. It was almost like he had been shot a second time. Agonised, Charles caught his own reflection again. A small dribble of blood was running down his cheek like a crimson tear, and his face was stinging. But now he could see his would clearly.

Most of the dried blood caked around it had been washed off earlier, but flecks of red were still visible around his left eye and cheek. The wound itself was an ugly sight, as most of the surrounding area had become yellow or black with bruising. You could just about make out the stitches, but small amounts of blood still seeped their way out, which obscured the thread. A bullet was still in there, surprisingly enough. Instead of getting any surgery all Charles had gotten had been remarks along the lines of 'Too dangerous' or 'We're not at the right provisional standards for such a procedure here, sir'. Reluctantly, Charles gave credit where credit was due.

The eye itself was closed, and the eyelid still covered in dirt and the dark red of dried blood. Therefore, Charles wasn't able to see the extent of damage to his retina. Pinching his eyelashes between two fingers, and lifting the eyelid was easy. But observing what was underneath was challenging. Charles had feared the worst, and the worst was here. He couldn't see. What he did see was the colour of his Iris and pupil in the process of fading. In no time at all, his whole eye would simply be a milky white ball, sitting in his skull. Charles threw down the patch, leant over the basins, and wept.

Later that evening, after tidying himself up, eating dinner and then shaving. Charles made his way to the top deck. It was dark out, and a mild breeze swept across the ocean. Charles folded his arms over the portside railings, his shirt flapped lightly in the wind. The brush of that breeze and slush of water on the hull made for a desirable atmosphere. He looked out at the water. An inky black sheet, with a ray of white moonlight streaking across.

He looked at that line of light for a while, as if it somehow meant something. As if it were the long, white eye of a dark creature, breathing high and low. The stars were out too. He saw not the stars, but this instead.

 **Thanks for reading! I'm aware that this chapter may not include much 'Thor' content, but that's intentional on my part. As the story goes on, there'll be plenty of that, and there's much more to come!**


	3. Prologue: 3

**Your presence...**

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 **...Wicked...**

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 **I fail to...**

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 **...my father...**

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 **Cast you out!**

The words echoed through its head. Like the unwanted buzzing of an insect, which you would swipe at, again and again, only for it to keep on being an annoyance. Although, it wasn't in control. It couldn't swipe at the words in frustration, make them go away. It wasn't able to anything intelligible, it wasn't able to think or feel. Not then. It was in space after all.

So, the words. They seemed to repeat themselves over and over. Like if the needle on a turntable had become dislodged, and all that was left was an incessant garble. They weren't even proper sentences. They were the last words to have ever been spoken to it. Doomed to haunt it in its exile.

What it was was Nul. A creature taller than most from across the Realms. It was entirely ink black, with the exception of its eyes and teeth (these teeth being only mildly sharp). Which appeared stark against whatever light there was. Nul had large feet and hands, and it had fingernails which resembled claws more than anything else. After all, if unarmed, Nul wasn't a stranger to literally fighting tooth and claw. He had the eyes of any normal man, they were a deep brown. There were no scars on Nul's body, and he had no visible genitalia. Nul was motionless at that point, his hands were open, his eyes and hands shut. He was in a splayed, but almost erect position. Space was moving him, at a snail's pace. He had no ship, he was near no ships _or_ planets. He should be dead. The thin layer of speckled white and blue frost covering his entire body indicated that. But he was alive. His skin hadn't peeled.

There was no hope of him being rescued, not now. He had been hanging there, comatose, in the perilous expanse between start for what was, thousands upon thousands of years. The chances of some vessel either running past him or happening to spot some indeterminable mass among the unbounded darkness of space (which most would likely dismiss as an asteroid or another piece of debris) was nil. It seemed as if Nul's existence would remain as it had for several millennia. Simply drifting. Alone and unconscious, stuck with only a broken and repeating memory. But until when?

Until that moment.

Abruptly, the temperature had begun to change. A space around Nul became radiantly warm. And if anyone else had been there to hear it, a low warping had come into earshot. Temperature lowering, the warping stopped. In an instant, the Bifröst had materialised, and Nul was at its centre.

His mind was awake. That fragmented memory gone. Nul's eyelids swipe apart, pupils dilating. He was staring, and he could feel Asgard staring right back. Fury began to burn through his body. He mustered a low groan, although this was outmatched by the shrill warps and screeches from the Bifröst. Nul perceived this; only a few minutes before, he was flung from the Realm Eternal. Out of Asgard's dimension. And sent racing through the cosmos. However, the Observatory had presumably sustained damage. And Bifröst cut out. Leaving him conscious in the vacuum for only a minute or two. Now it was back, propelling him forward at faster-than-light speeds.

Nul was unable to assume a safe position and was instead being flailed around. Usually, one would enter the Bifröst standing, and travel rather comfortably, facing forward. Nul, on the other hand, had been taken aback after the Bifröst woke him, and wasn't currently experiencing the journey in such a way. Endless stars and Nebulae passed him by each second.

Nul managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of what was ahead, and just saw the expanding path of the Bridge. A moment later, and turned back a saw a world hurtling towards him. And before he could find any distinguishable features, his aetherial surroundings were replaced with grey overcast, and he was in the atmosphere. And just as quickly, the Bifröst cut out again. He let out a momentary bellow somewhat equivalent to a yelp, and braced for an unpleasant landing.


End file.
